Stat d’Esprit
by Lydiby
Summary: this is a lousy lousy story that i should tear down and you most definitely should not read. i'm not kidding, it sucks, don't waste your time!
1. Blurring Distinctions

I'm getting right down to the nitty-gritty, aren't you proud of me? It's occurred to me that my fan-fiction, well, sucks so I'm going to rewrite it. Which will take awhile, but if I don't rush I'm hoping it will be salvageable. So here we go…   

Disclaimer: The Canon is not mine and I'm not making money. Period. As in I'm going thrift shopping today because I have precisely $5.50 to my name. 

All original characters ARE MINE, if you ask nicely I will probably let you use them, but why you'd want to is really beyond me. Hi-ho Silver away!

Éstat d'Esprit

~*~

            Moving through the commuter's rush, I uneasily scanned the crowd. Second shift was beginning and the train platform was crammed. Business men and women going their way. No one noticed the paranoid girl standing against the walk by a bench with a holding a violin case with £4 million Stradivarius in it. For which I was grateful, though not really reassured. I took a surreptitious glance at my iron man watch; five minutes until my train arrived. I fought the impulse to unfasten my violin case so I could lean against the wall. Having something solid again my back was sort of a nervous yen of mine. Carefully adjusting my stance for balance, I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath, only to choke on a noxious fume.

            "Le tunnel sous la Manche train, Paris à Londres direct. English Channel train, nonstop Paris to London …" a tedious announcer voice echoed in several languages.

 Coughing, I looked up at the train in confusion; it didn't run on gas. I wiped a rebelliously streaming eye and boarded, leaving the mysterious stench behind. The lights flickered unpleasantly as I stepped in the car. Blinded for a moment I staggered forward, before recovering my vision. I found myself in a completely unexpected hall with old-fashioned boxes. 

_Must be English design_. 

All the trains I'd been on in France were nothing like this one. _Culture shock_, I thought disdainfully. You'd think after touring around most of Europe and living in America, I'd be able to handle trains with boxes. I walked down until I found an empty one and slide the door open. I pulled down the shades, so no one could see in, and un-strapped the violin case. I pulled out my last edition of Le Monde. Well, I could probably get it in London, _if _I knew where to find it. Now I regretted my nap on the flight earlier, I was wide-awake and probably would be for a while. Just as I settled down into world events, there was a sharp rap and the door slide halfway open. 

"Excusez-moi," An attractive guy paused in the doorframe, a confused expression passing over his face, "Mademoiselle, tout le compartments…allez complet."

"Your British," I said, crisply folding my newspaper down. 

_And dressed the oddest I've seen in awhile_, I added silently, taking in his threads.

"Yes," he replied, sagging in relief.

"Well at least you're on the right train." I grinned wryly, hoping he had a sense of humor. He returned with a delightful grin of his own.

"I've been traveling with my friend, he's fluent; in every language known to man, I think sometimes. He should be here any minute, do you mind—"

"It's fine." I said before he could finish. 

"Merci."

Je vous en prie," I said flatly, re-captivated by my newspaper, and returning to my anti-social self.

I didn't notice his friend come in; I've a dangerous habit of blotting everything else out while I read. Three sections of Le Monde later nature presented me with a dilemma. Struggling to keep my cheeks from charring, I picked up my violin case and went in search of the washroom. As I walked back through the car the breaks slammed on with a piercing screech; inertia throwing me backwards. A Stradivarius does not travel without its protection however, so I wasn't worried.  Swearing darkly about the train being 'direct', I pushed myself up, only to slide back down. 

I was in an entirely different train.

Washroom forgotten, I ran the full length, and not antique box to be found.

~*~

Watson

~*~

I leaned over and picked up the newspaper the girl had left behind.

Le Monde, Mercredi août 5e , 2002.

~*~

By my first rehearsal with the London Philharmonic, I was my composed rational self. The only thing that truly frightened me was that I did not remember getting on the train. Anything could have happened from the point when I was standing on the platform to when I woke up, halfway to Calais. 

La Mer, my Stradivarius that is, was fine. The best way to get away with the theft of a priceless violin was to leave an impeccable replica in its place, with a forged tag. If it was a success, the replacement usually went unnoticed until the violinist's death, when the heir had it appraised. I felt anyone who couldn't recognize a charlatan in place of their own violin deserved to be duped. I knew how La Mer _felt_ and unlike her tag, her tone and personality could not be duplicated. 

As the notes rippled out into Prince Albert hall, I knew my violin had not been nicked. La Mer insinuated the timeless serenity and inert presence of the ocean. She was well named and a superior stress reliever I have yet to find. 

_She takes it out you_, I thought wryly as I kicked back, during our brief break. 

"Hello? Emma Kinglars?"

"Yes?"

"I'm Lucia Harbinger, fourth chair violin."

"Delighted," I murmured, glancing up at the woman, or rather girl, disrupting my nap. 

A willowy blond, with soft grey eyes stood before me, slim long fingers, to be the envy of any pianist grasped the neck of her violin, tucked beneath her arm. I half expected her to sway in the breeze. 

"I was wondering if you could go over measure thirty-four through forty-six in this new piece we've got," she sheepishly hung her head as she spoke in a rich tone of liverpudlian's accent. "I just can't get the lick, and this is a hierarchy…" she hesitated, seeing the comprehension on my face and reluctant to say as much as she had.     

"Sure," I said unfolding my lanky self and following her to the currently empty greenroom. We ran through it until she had the feel, and then rushed back to the rehearsal. 

Four hours later, I was utterly drained. I grabbed a cup of coffee and went out a side door to wait for the rental car. My watch went off.

"Oh, shut up," I muttered, heedless of where I was going. 

"Careful," someone said, as I promptly smacked into them. Anticipating another unpleasant crash, when two firm hands grasped my elbows, holding me upright I almost unbalanced myself again.

"Terribly sorry," I said. Blinking, at the man I'd run into.

"By Jove!" another voice from beside him exclaimed, dimly familiar to my dazed and tired mind. I turned to see the guy from the train.

_Er, what? Train, I was…dreaming. Or sleepwalking…something? I've heard about London fog, but this is a little far._

"Fancy meeting you here," I drawled, taking in the pair's clothing. Not eager to hook up with some bizarre cult, I pulled myself out of the man's grip. Freaking out a little more with each passing second; it could hardly be coincidence in a city this size. Which meant…I had to get out of here. Fast. I nervously wondered if he'd put a tracking chemical[1] on me when I'd bumped into him.  

"If you'll pardon me, I have to be going," I tried to walk, not stumble, past them. The strange man's arms reached out to catch me again. Standing up straight forced me to look directly into his acerbic grey eyes. Like a fog concealing what was within and isolating all it engulfed. I didn't like it at all, uncomfortable, to say the least. 

"You are unwell," Monsieur Non-Parle-Français said, pleadingly.

I bit back a retort of: no shit Sherlock, and tried to appear composed. 

"Elle s'appelle caféine, mon ami." I downed the last of my coffee and persisted in walking forward to the curb. 

"Pardon moi," my friend's friend interjected, "what precisely are you wearing?"

"Clothes," I said, sourly, I was aware that after six hours of rehearsal I was enough to give Vogue a stroke, but there was no need to rub it in.

"I should be asking you that question I believe," I added for measure, looking somewhat franticly for my ride, which was not to be found. In fact, there was no traffic. At six thirty it should have been a regular jam. Nothing. Except for an out of place tourist horse-and-carriage thing.

_Shouldn't that be in Regent Park or something?_

"I suppose, you do have a point there," a droll note of humor had crept into his tone that I did not like at all, "I already know that, you are a budding virtuoso, political science student at university of Montpellier, on the varsity fencing team—I'm not finished, Mademoiselle Kinglars."

"Whither you are finished yet or not is not my concern. I am finished listening to you, now if you'll excuse me." 

_Not them, not here, not now. _

I whirled around to seek refuge in the hall, all pretense of composure gone.

But so were they. 

The traffic was back and my ride was waiting at the curb in front of me. Wordlessly I got in the car.                   

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vous aimez? Better? I researched! Le Monde is real and not mine!

  


* * *

[1] Certain elements can be traced if you have the equipment. The advantage is that a person may not even notice, while bugs are more difficult to conceal without arousing suspicion. However, if the traces are planted on a piece of clothing, if the clothing is removed and left somewhere or washed they will lose the trace. It all depends on the situation and the quality of your technology.  


	2. Sweet Anarchy

Disclaimer: once again folks the canon is the sole property of Doyle Estates.

Éstat d'Esprit 

Chapter two

~*~

I found myself wishing for sunglasses as I stepped on stage. The one thing I truly could not stand about performing was the lighting. The harsh lights washed out all skin color, forcing me to make myself up like a hooker before every stage concert. Typically, I don't care much about dress, but tonight my outfit was as posh as the capital of my native country. I wore a silver silk jacket and skirt suit. The skirt was sleek and narrow flaring out gracefully from my knees to below my feet allowing me freedom of movement. The jacket was cut to exemplify the curves I didn't have, the sleeves stopped just above my elbows to show off the crimson wine colored ruffle edged shirt I wore underneath. With a stiff standing collar it set off the pair very well. I felt elegant, and that would show up in my music.

            I flowed through the piece, La Mer cascading through the hall. My fingers moved by memory alone. That's how it's always been for me. When I started, I'd been so terrified of standing up in front of everyone my mind would blank out during the piece. The only way to get through it was to memorize the music and play through it so many times that my fingers would keep going in spite of my mind descending into anarchy. The panic was, of course, overcome, but I still savored the ecstasy of sinking into the music. 

            Once the piece was over, I impatiently waited, checking my urge to simply run off stage. The applause was gratifying, but I didn't bask in it. I'd much rather be putting La Mer in the Ritz safe so I could go to Lucia's party. Evidently, despite her lower rank in the London Phil hierarchy, she was something of an arte nouveau patroness for London's Elegant Gothic Lolita scene. I was looking forward to an after party I could actually enjoy. Instead of the emblematic millionaire's oppressive cocktail party, where I was forced to listen prune mouthed old ladies babble on and nod all the while, pretending I understood Italian. Money and intelligence had no correspondence; it was another of those lessons that life, for some reason, felt I needed.   

            I put La Mer in the case, grabbed my black trench coat, bag, and was out.

            _Damn the Paparazzi!_ I thought. Blinded, I groped in my bag and pulled my sunglasses out.

"Mademoiselle!"

"Miss Kinglars over here!

"Miss Emma Kinglars, Ritz security, come with us." A hand grasped my elbow; instinctively I pulled away.  A man jumped in between the car and me. He raised a preposterously large camera and before I could react the dazzling flash of a supernova went off. I tripped backwards for the second time in a week, this time falling into the security guard.

"Lâchez-moi! Tu pervertir![i]" I yelled, not caring that the Paparazzi would be on this like maggots on a road kill carcass. I lurched onto my feet, unhappily; I couldn't see. 

 "Pardon, Madmoiselle, j'ai voulu dire seul aider.[ii]"

            I shoved the person away as I regained my balance. 

"You!"

            I blinked dazedly into a pair of remotely familiar eyes. 

            "Pray elaborate, Watson," the pervert said, suavely.

            "Freak," I muttered to myself.

            "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you," his tone dripped acid.

            "Rien iii­," I amended hastily. "Where's my car?" 

            "Car? I'm not familiar with that word." He frowned imposingly. 

I massaged my brow to alleviate a massive headache, while trying to take in just exactly what I was seeing. A girl in a Mansfield Park dress was strolling down the cute (read: revoltingly filthy) Victorian lane, complete with trap and horse, and complimentary gas lamps! I opened my mouth to give a vulgar exclamation of astonishment, but nothing came out at all. In the process of making a truly valiant attempt to close my mouth, my knees gave out. 

I sat on the ground head in my hands, trench coat pooled about me. An aching wave of nausea swept through me. Chills rippled just below the surface of my skin drawing together to shudder violently down my spine racking my body. Sweating, I began shaking uncontrollably, and I couldn't get enough air. My stomach rolled like spiral on a roller coaster and I leaned forward just in time to spare my skirt. While the Dead Sea spread across the sidewalk, I dry heaved. Cool hands grasped my throbbing head in blessed stillness while my body viciously convulsed.  My head felt like it had been caught between an anvil and a blacksmith.

_What had I done to the blacksmith? _

I closed my eyes but the ground spun beneath me. I wanted to cry, I wanted to, but I couldn't breathe, crying wasn't possible. Silent sobs racked me between gasping for breath as I was swept up into the blissful arms of unconsciousness. 

Dark shapes contorted across the blank grey horizon, twisting like demented cyclones. Menacing, I thrashed, trying to run; I couldn't move. Twin tornados sucked me up, I opened my mouth to scream but nothing came out. In the center were two frigid grey eyes; I was dragged upward to drown in the blackness of the omniscient pupils. The roaring had stopped. All was blackness, I could not see myself. 

Nuit. 

A desolate violin wavered harmonically; those horrible eyes pierced me. It went on, it was beautiful and I wanted to listen, but it hurt; I writhed to get away. Then it stopped. 

All of it.

A gun report rang in my ears and my eyes flew open. Darkness, the room was dim and still.

"Holmes! You yourself diagnosed the poison!" It was Watson, muffled from another room. "It is as obvious to me as to you that something surreal is going on here, but I will not have you questioning her! She is at a critical stage in her recovery and if you upset her she could easily relapse!"

The voices faded out as sleep enfolded me. 

The rattle of china awoke me. Eyes slowly swimming into focus, I looked up at a matronly woman. Her warm brown eyes smiled gently at me.

"Good morning dear. I thought some tea would be advisable."

I tried to lift my head, but it was much too heavy so I took stock of my vocal chords.

"Mrs. Hudson?" I croaked. The poor woman almost started out of her skin. I mentally winced; I hadn't really expected her to be able to make out what I was saying. She opened her mouth and then closed it. I hoped she dismissed it is have some how identified her from a previous conversation with Watson or Holmes. I'd never been much of a tea drinker, but at this point I was almost thirsty enough to drink…well, never mind. The only thing that kept me from chugging it down was that Mrs. Hudson was propping my head up and holding the cup for me. She put the cup back on the tray with a soft clink.

"Thank you," I was gratified to hear my almost normal voice come out.

She nodded her head in acknowledge, "Dr. Watson shall be in to see you soon."

I sighed and thrust myself up; luxury did not include the time for real thought. 

_Which chivalrous gentleman has been sleeping on the sofa?_ I mused to myself. 

The room was an organized mess, but the music stand decided it. I was rather surprised and somewhat dismayed that I had managed to kick the great detective out of his own bedroom. I dimly recalled Watson's Hippocratic zeal with even more dismay; he had fired his revolver? What on earth had gotten into the man! I wasn't _that_ delicate, in fact I wasn't delicate at all, I'd just been poisoned.         

_Poisoned! _ 

With that flood of memory my frivolity was brushed aside. I was in Victorian England, unless this was some elaborate Truman Show ruse. Looking outside at the dismal London fog, I doubted it. It had hurt far too much to be a dream. Also I'd been in London for a week and the color of that fog could not be duplicated. I sat distracted, I could remember the performance and Watson yelling at Holmes, but my memory skittered around what had happened between those two events like a frightened colt.

 Where in the canon had I landed? I shook my head, remembering my very first slip up with Mrs. Hudson. With one bad sentence I could screw up the whole canon. 

_ I'd better keep my mouth shut and get out of here ASAP. Sooner or later something will slip and the less I'm around the less chances I have to destroy his career._

"Miss Kinglars?" The door cracked open and Watson leaned around it.

"Hullo," I said, nervously.

"How are you feeling?"

"Much better," I lied, well, sort of. Physically I was much better, mentally, hah, ha…no. 

He went through the routine check up while filling me in, "you've been asleep, or delirious for the past three days. Gave us quite a fright for awhile," bemused by his language I smiled weakly, "You've had a particularly severe case of salicylate poisoning. Can you recollect your diet that day?"

I blinked down at the mysterious cotton nightgown I was wearing; did it matter? Even if I had grabbed a cup of poisoned coffee before I left the hall, theywouldn't be coming after me again. And it wasn't like I could warn anyone else; _don't drink the coffee._ I couldn't recall.

"It's of no consequence," I replied, softly.

 "It is!" he disagreed, "if only for the fact that I'm holding a man starved for information back with my bare hands."

_And what your not adding is he entertained a brief but successful career as a pugilist,_ I joked silently.

"Forgive me," he said, flustered, "I did not mean to imply—" 

"Not all at." I smiled at him. "I think I am well enough to come out and meet your friend properly. Its about time I thank my benefactors for their overextended hospitality."

"It is my turn to say; not at all, for myself and Holmes." I got the impression of a gentleman taking of his hat to a lady, though naturally he wasn't wearing one indoors. "Mrs. Hudson will help you with a bath."

I bit my lip; _help me with a bath?_

I didn't want to distress Watson however and said nothing. Holmes had proved that Mrs. Hudson was a _very_ reasonable woman.   

  


* * *

  


* * *

[i] Release me! You pervert!

[ii] Forgive me, Miss, I meant only to help. 

iii Nothing


	3. Send the pain below

Thanks y'all! I love reviews more than anything! You're right Silent Beatnik (May I still call you that? Please?) Emma is definitely bitchy and she's got every right to be. I'm not concerning myself with what is cliché; I'm concerning myself with what's real. 

Chapter three

Mrs. Hudson proffered a soft green dress. I shook my head and stepped back, feeling like a balking horse.

"No," I said politely, but firmly, "I'm facing him on my terms or not at all."

Her disapproving countenance softened and she nodded. 

"I will get your things then."

I pulled on a simple grey top, grodey red and grey Vans, and battered, patched, but beloved jeans; the clothes I had worn to Albert Hall. Mrs. Hudson pined my dark hair up skillfully and despite the clash of time periods, it turned my casual outfit into something elegant. 

Finally, I made my way into the sitting room. Watson looked shock at first but then grinned at me; Holmes didn't even look up. The mantel was inundated in papers; I noted the chemistry set, bookcases, even that ridiculous Persian slipper everyone was so fond of mentioning. The wall behind the door had a profuse number of bullet holes in it. Silently, I glanced at the ceiling over Holmes's bedroom door. It was there, I hadn't dreamed up that piece of madness. So what the hell was wrong with Holmes? He should be at my throat for answers by know. I glanced at Watson, feeling the silence thickening like the air before a storm. What did I really know about these two men at all? From that one outburst alone, I could scrap everything I did know. 

"It would probably be best," I sighed aloud and sank onto the sofa.

"Pardon me?" Watson asked, giving me a quizzical look.

"Er," I stalled uneasily; my train of thought was off schedule, an unpleasant occurrence.

Unwittingly, I looked into a pair of frosty grey eyes. Shards of ice pierced my innards and for one terrifying moment I couldn't breath again. I closed my eyes before the blackness swallowed me. The Hoover broke and deluged me with memories. Then I realized I was playing ostrich, hiding my head in the sand. Embarrassed, I opened my eyes again, though I was hesitant to make eye contact again, if only to see the blatant disgust there.

_"Lâchez-moi! Tu pervertir!" _was a particularly forward recollection in my mind.

"It would probably be best," I started out again, "if I found employment immediately.

"I am, most grateful for," I struggled with the words, everything was so foreign, "for your hospitality and kindness, but I mustn't impose on it any longer." 

I tugged at the Green Peace patch on my thigh. The whole situation was beginning to dawn on me. My eyes turned to the window and the fog that enshrouded the world outside. 

It was real. It was out there.

And suddenly I needed to be out there, just to know. 

"May," I drew a deep breath and continued, "I take a walk?"

"If you do not object to some questions I would like to ask later, I would be, happy to escort you," Holmes spoke for the first time. 

His hesitation over the word happy was far from lost on me. I bristled, not so much at the implication, but at the realization that I was completely at this pair's mercy. If I didn't accept their terms I would most likely end up at the mercy of someone who didn't posses any. One look into his astute grey eyes confirmed that the reason he was sure I wouldn't bolt was because he was sure I had nowhere to go. Quietly I began to smolder. Perhaps I had to accept, but I didn't have to be courteous about it. 

"I will answer what I deem appropriate," I replied in a deceptively cool manner. 

"Very well," Watson cut in, his tone slightly warning; to Holmes, or me I wasn't sure. 

My trench was slung across a chair at the table. I threw it on and glanced down at the effect, the bottom was cut for freedom of movement and thus appeared to flare out enough to cover a dress. Nonetheless, it was not something a Victorian woman would ever wear. 

'_Victorian woman,_' I thought with contempt and jammed my hands into my pockets. I turned to ask about my Strad and bag, but was swept out the door before the correctly phrased words removed themselves from the traffic jam of incorrect ones caught in my throat. It was just as well; if the incorrect ones had come out world war one would have started nearly three decades early.

As it was, The Cold War went from winter to summer when he took my arm.  

"Miss Kinglars, I don't believe we have in fact been properly introduced, I am Sherlock Holmes and naturally this is my colleague and associate Dr. John Watson, whom you have already met," he smoothly stated. I nodded, not sure what was expected; especially not liking having my arm threaded through his. As the three of us walked down the street all the animosity drained out of me. 

This was Victorian London.

The hansom cabs, the gas lamps, the rough cockney, refined ladies, grubby street Arabs, vendors, grimy cobblestone streets, brownstones, teashops, pubs, and over it all a choking yellow-brown fog that amplified every noise made. It was enough to make you feel like a cat in a kennel. 

We walked in silence for sometime, my dismay rapidly plummeting into despair. 

I'd never make it here.

I was too crass and opinionated. I didn't give a damn what people thought of me; and just looking the ladies we passed was enough to make my heart land with a splat in the gutter, with every disease known to man, and a few more besides. 

Impatiently I growled at myself, this would not do. I dragged my chin up and found myself facing a brown mare dolefully looking at me around her blinders.

"Hell no!" I yelled, yanking myself out of Holmes grip. The two of them (and the horse, and some pedestrians) turned and stared at me.

 "I won't be like you," I whispered to the mare, " I will _never_ be like you."

"Miss Kinglars are you—"

"Yes, I am quite fine I assure you Watson. I don't customarily chat with horses," I sneered caustically, more at myself than anyone. To my shock, Holmes began to laugh. I watched in astonishment as his shoulders began to quake and then as it rose and burst out into the air. Recovering, I tucked a stray wisp of hair behind my ear and folded my arms.

"Please call me Emma. I don't know how I'm going to get by with all this etiquette merde," I growled to myself, unhappily scuffing the sidewalk with the toe of my Vans.

"Then you must call me John," he replied, grinning again and looking quite cute and nothing like the bumbling fool portrayed in the canon. I begin to suspect that his character had been altered for a contrasting effect that would make Holmes seem all the more brilliant. 

"Very well," I nodded, "then John, what the hell is the date and how the hell did I get here?"

"It is Wednesday August 7, 1885 and I haven't the faintest notion," he said quickly, once again looking rather puzzled. 

"I suppose this is going to take awhile," I said looking dubiously at the still silent Holmes. His eyes ran over me before he nodded; I sighed.

"Come Watson, Miss—"

"Emma," I supplied.

"Kinglars," he finished giving me a hand into the cab sitting by the curb. 

The jostling was horrible. Through a glaring headache as we rode back to Baker street, I watch with envy as the two of them sat effortlessly straight.

When we got back to 221b the inquisition began. I told Holmes flat out, that I would not answer any questions about the future; he already knew enough from snooping through my stuff and mere observation. He gamely replied that I obviously had an unfair advantage.

"I will make it up to you when and where you chose," I offered magnanimously.

"I accept your selfless proposal," he replied graciously acknowledging the reach of my effort to bridge the gap. This made him clearly aware of the extent of my advantage, but he hadn't a clue as to the grounds. How could he? A Study in Scarlet wouldn't be published until 1887. 

He wasn't alone in his primary frustration; how had I gotten here?

Next in line was who had poisoned me and why. I couldn't relate the events leading up to my transportation without giving him too much information about the future. My memory was too clouded with the pain and confusion involved to be accurate anyway. There was no point; there was no indication of anything specific. I bluntly told them I hadn't been aware time traveling was possible and if this much distance could not keep me safe, nothing could. I was no quantum physics student and I was not going to give him the smallest specific of even the year it had been. Or would be. 

So we drew to a stalemate.

Holmes slouched in his chair, fingers characteristically steepled and somehow managed to glower with his eyes shut. John looked about as tired as I felt and I felt like someone had tried to put me through a cotton gin. To understate the situation; not cool.

Finally I roused myself from the overwhelmed stupor into which I'd sunk. 

"Where is my Strad?"

Holmes glanced up, seeming to return from another continent, of thought at least.

"I'll get it," he murmured and rose. He disappeared into his room and returned a moment later with it and my bag. I'd never seen a stranger sight than him with a world war II mailbag slung across his three piece suit. I unlocked the pad, unzipped the case, and set it aside. Angling the body carefully to examine the label.

"Hand me a magnifying glass," I requested, distractedly. The handle was placed in my hand and I began thorough examination through the 'f' hole and of the entire violin itself.

"You don't believe It's a fake and I've stolen it do you?" an amused voice asked from somewhere above me.

"It's a Stradivarius," I cried defensively. Holmes's mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. I shrugged and tightened my bow. Standing, I attacked the shoulder rest and tuned. Everything sounded all right. I ran up a scale and smile appreciatively before launching into a warm-up piece. I worked through Humoresque, a piece by Dvorák, just a smidgen slower than usual, but ultimately please with the result. It was La Mer all right. 

Finishing, I realized with a start that Humoresque hadn't been written yet.

"Would that I could get you into the Paris Conservatory," Holmes said, emotionlessly.

"No kidding," I muttered, my elation quickly wiped away in lieu of employment prospects. I put La Mer back and began to rummage through my bag. Making a mental checklist of what I had with me.

"You wouldn't last a day as a maid," he said.

"Or as a secretary," John added. 

"I agree, completely," I said, dryly, "so what can I do?"

"Governess," John suggested, standing and pouring himself a glass of brandy, "it is really the only option left. Would you like a drink?"

"No thanks," I answered, inwardly flinching at the proposition. 

"Yes, I think she would make a splendid governess," Holmes drawled. I glared at him.

"You honestly believe that?" I demanded. 

"Have a drink, Emma." John pressed a glass into my hands in an effort to delay the inevitable war brewing. I downed it in one go and got a good laugh out of John's expression. Holmes was imperturbable as ever. 

"Refill?" I called, cocking my head, and holding the glass out. He took it with a wary glance at me. 

"Now you haven't answered my question," I said, turning towards Holmes and sipping the brandy.

"You haven't got much choice, Kinglars."

"You are infuriating, do you know that?" I blurt out.

"Not half as infuriating as you are," he shot back. I sat for a moment contemplating, with no small amount of horror, what I'd just said.

"Watson," I swallowed, "you'd better take this." I held my glass out to him. I'd only had a glass and few sips but I hadn't eaten anything in hours, since breakfast. When I got drunk I became brusquely truthful, which could be very dangerous and had caught me in extremely unpleasant situations once or twice before. 

"Kinglars, I suggest you let Mrs. Hudson help you put on that dress and we go out to diner," Holmes said sharply. 

"I apologize," I said swiftly. Turmoil and embarrassment burnt through me.

"It's been a long day," Holmes said blandly, but it was compassionate thing to say. I was grateful he didn't think me a...well I really couldn't claim he didn't think I was an idiot. He was keeping the contempt out of his behavior. Holmes could have cut me down with one casual swipe, but he didn't. I was grateful for that at least.  

Even so dinner was a miserable affair. 

Did I mention I was wearing a corset? 

The food was first rate and John had some truly amusing stories and was quite gifted when it came to telling them, but all I could think was: I got drunk in front of Sherlock Holmes. On the first day I'd officially made his acquaintance. Not really drunk, but enough to humiliate myself. 

'_What the hell am I thinking? Even if it is Sherlock Holmes, why should I care if he were the, the queen of Sheba?' _ I mused.

I cracked up over my crème brûlé at the thought of Holmes as the queen of Sheba, conveniently at the punch line of John's story.

"You should write these down, they would sell," I told him, encouragingly.

He didn't reply.

"Is business not discussed over dinner?" I asked; feeling slightly abashed. 

'_Everything I say,_' I bemoaned my terrible timing.  

"Not usually by women," Holmes said, coolly swirling the wine in his glass, "but since the topic has been brought up, I will find a position for you tomorrow."

It took a great deal of willpower not shriek out 'merci Dieu.' His nonchalant gesturing was so evidently mocking my earlier episode. 

"Words cannot express," I said, demurely. I was pleased to see John took the words at face value, while Holmes took the hit.  

The meal was quickly wrapped up after that. I stretched my legs out over the seat in the cab to brace myself; wishing desperately that someone would invent cheap shocks. Folding myself arms, I rallied myself to battle my inner demons. 

For all I knew, I was going to spend the rest of my life here. I just had to accept that. Panicking and going into hysterics would be a waste of time and energy. I had to make the best of what was dealt to me, even a freakish hand like this. It was too much to absorb at once so I decided to take it one day at a time. When we arrived, it was all I could do to get up the stairs before I crashed and burned.

Something really weird happened to me while I was writing this. Emma yelled out something totally OOC and of course Holmes retaliated immediately. I didn't get it; why would she say that? Then I stopped for a moment. I'd just had to put some action in the dialogue, hadn't I? She hadn't eaten in hours either. It was then I discovered:

Emma Kinglars has no tolerance for alcohol.

I hope she doesn't have anything else to spring on me. Your characters coming to life with a mind of their own is not very reassuring to a struggling wannabe writer.


	4. Worn out places, Worn out faces

"And I find it kind of funny   
I find it kind of sad   
The dreams in which I'm dying   
Are the best I've ever had   
I find it hard to tell you   
´cause I find it hard to take   
When people run in circles   
It's a very very   
Mad world"

~Title and excerpt taken from: Mad World by Tears for Fears~

Chapter four

Not wanting to face the day, I sat consoling my cup of tea; a loudly cleared throat shook me out of what must've been an expression of vacant despair. I cringed as tea sloshed all over my untouched kippers.

"The Wilson's have accepted your application," Holmes announced.

"What?" I gasped out, "When did you have time to make up an—oh never mind," I muttered.

"The Wilson's have three children, two boys, ages nine and seven and one girl, age six. They will be expecting you as soon as possible. That trunk," he nodded to the beautiful Italian leather chest by the door, "and its contents are yours." He slid a small silver key across the table to me.

"I will reimburse you as soon as possible."

"That will not be—"

"Necessary; yes. I've got a piece of Fabergé I can pawn," I interrupted.

"Don't pawn it," John interjected hastily, "your pay should be adequate if this is Mr. and Mrs. Peter Wilson we are speaking of." 

"It is," Holmes said, abstractedly perusing a paper.

I cocked an eyebrow and looked to John for clarification.

"Parliamentary of the house of commons, fairly influential," John explained. 

I bit back a query of, "Mycroft?" in time.

"Then I suppose I'll pack," I said, surveying the first-rate lock. 

Opening it revealed an ample wardrobe for a governess in tasteful colors and cuts. Well, at least by my standards, I hadn't exactly made a study of the current fashion. I considered a moment before I stacked everything next to me and studied the lining.

Sherlock Holmes had presumably ordered and purchased this; I'd been damned if there wasn't at least one hidden compartment. Slowly I ran my fingertips across the bottom. There was nothing to be seen but white velvet so I shut my eyes to focus on that one sense. After an eternity, I felt it catch and lifted the seemingly seamless panel out. Grabbing my bag I slid my laptop out and tucked it in the bottom, my modern clothes and bag went on top. The panel fit back into place, the white velvet creating an illusion of depth that concealed the missing space. I put my violin in and replaced the clothes, taking one of the nicer dresses to change. 

            Once again it was an anomalously chill day so I found a shawl before my trunk was loaded onto the hansom. 

"What did you put down on this application?" I asked Holmes warily.

            "What the Wilson's wanted to hear."

            "When did you become a wisenheimer?" I muttered, unhappy that I was somehow rubbing off on him. Or he had adopted a new policy of giving as good as he got.

            "The key points are you are of French birth and were educated at a public girl's school in Beckenham. You teach French, English, Latin, and German, mathematics and geometry, natural sciences, geography, history and music. The rest you are free to improvise."

            "Big brother, indeed," I said softly, but he heard me and I've no doubt understood. Normally I would have laughed at my pun, but I was little more than preoccupied. 

            Pandemonium greeted me at the door and swept me away.  It was the last I saw of Sherlock Holmes for some weeks. Mr. Peter and Mrs. Valerie Wilson were charming and cordial. Miss Betsy James was discreetly amusing and Lewis (Christopher, though a well trained butler would never tell you so) was Jeeves's uncle, I would swear to it. He was witty, covertly manipulative and altogether hilarious though naturally his dignity, pride and dedication to his calling precluded any displays of comedy. Lewis was _not easily_ foiled. While Peter Wilson, by no means anything vaguely resembling Bertie Wooster, rarely required such guidance…it is summed up in one sentence.

The children were demons with cherubic smiles.

            Removing a snake from my pocket and not screaming to the point of decapitation or fainting spelt challenge to Thomas Wilson. Finding a snake in London, by itself, was mark of resourcefulness and it was the first measure of what I would be up against. Jacob Wilson was the most dignified seven year old I'd every met although he idolized Thomas and often assisted his brother's gamboling progressive plots. Sylvia was a work of her own. She was a ruined horror of a little girl, therefore instantly taking to me. The extraordinary part was within two weeks the six year old had dismissed times tables as effortless and was quickly moving beyond division. Against these three, I could not have found a more valuable ally than Lewis. Unfortunately, he and Betsy had more than enough to do with their own work leaving me to fend for myself.

            Thomas's plots were wholly original, and thus all the more dangerous. Short sheeting and hiding chalk was far too dull for him. He weakened chairs so they broke beneath me, stretched string across doorframes at ankle height, left surprises in the toes of my shoes, dumped spiders in my wardrobe, drizzled molasses in my hair while I was sleeping (which took me four days to get completely out), and then rigged an elaborate scheme to lock me out of the house all night.

So it went, for three weeks all of these failed to provoke the desired reaction. To my immense relief, Thomas and Jacob's frustration bloomed into respect and one day the plots stopped altogether.

            Truly, I should have known better.  

The final blow came when Thomas 'seasoned' my food with ipecac. He used a half a bottle of syrup. I found myself embracing the porcelain alter, having a panic attack and going into shock. It was all too much like the last time. Mr. Wilson called John immediately. John did what he could for the shock being as I was still vomiting, but the ipecac could only be left to run its course. Holmes had come with him and proved to be the biggest comfort. Given the circumstances, his presence was soothing. He was fortunate I was indisposed; had my stomach not been coming out my mouth I would've been in a presence of mind to kill him. 

'Splendid governess,' indeed!

And while I was at it, the minute fiend would have got it as well. However Holmes completed his penance during those three endless hours of hell. John informed me the next day that Holmes had dealt with the minute fiend as well. How he wouldn't say but Thomas never gave me trouble again. In actuality, he seemed to hold me in awe. It was semi mutual; the fact that a nine year old had been able to procure ipecac syrup was at the time, lost on me, but I never again underestimated a child. 

            Once that was done with life settled down. I had pleasant quarters on the third floor with the nursery and more pay than I knew what to do with, even after tricking John into taking money for the trunk and clothes to Holmes. Thursday was my day off. John would accompany me while we generally just wandered around London or the Strand. He did not forsake a woman completely alone in 'the great wilderness of London,' or however he'd put it. Or would put it.

The children were turning out much better than I would've hoped, particularly under my guidance, as a day didn't go by where I found myself fluently swearing in French. Sylvia was turning out to be a true math prodigy and less spoiled. Jacob loved arranging history skits, and Thomas was devouring anything new invented and wanted to work with Edison. 

Despite the work, I found myself becoming more and more bored. As I'd predicted, Victorian life did not suit me at all. I was getting wanderlust bad and spending my days on the third floor of a house with three equally fidgety children was no remedy. 

            One evening in early October, the children were giving me a particularly hard time about going to bed. It was ten before I got the boys to sleep, but Sylvia had left her doll downstairs and absolutely refused to go to sleep without her. Muttering to myself in French, I stalked downstairs to find the ridiculous toy. 

The house was a big square thing on a street corner with the stairs in the entry way and the parlor and the dinning room on the right and Mr. Wilson's study, the kitchen and servants quarters to the left. Quietly, I began to search the hallway for the doll where Sylvia said she'd left it. Light was pouring across the dark wood floor from underneath the study door and I didn't want to disturb Mr. Wilson. 

            "Let me…" an unfamiliar voice growled fading in and out, maliciously.

            I heard Mr. Wilson reply evenly but couldn't make him out. Something else was said, and I heard glass break.

            "You will come to see it my way sooner or later, and if I were you, for their sake, I'd hurry up," the man said, ominously. 

The doorknob rattled slightly and I ducked into the shadow behind the grandfather clock. I pressed into the wall and held myself still, using the darkness to hide me. Glowing light cascaded into the hall as the door swung open and a cloaked figure with fury in his stride slammed out the front door. The light went out and the shadow form of Mr. Wilson stood in the doorframe, wearily running his hand through his dark hair. The bolt clicked as he locked the front door and turned to climb the stairs. I silenced my breath as he walked past me. The stairs creaked slightly and I concentrated my hearing until I heard the bedroom door close. Eventually all noise ceased. Carefully gliding across the wood floorboards I knelt at the study door. It was locked, but I was going to find out what had been broken; lock be damned. I'd tried picking locks with hairpins before with no success, but those had been 21st century locks. I pulled two out of my hair and straightened them; if I could hotwire a car, I could certainly pick a lock. After an eon or so of prodding the tumblers gave with a soft click that seemed to shake the silent house's foundations. Slowly I eased the handle and swung the door open. 

I'd been in here once or twice before, but never had the opportunity to look around. It was well furnished.  The musty scent of leather volumes hung in the air from the cases of the walls. A well organized, but ultimately barren desk stood in the center of the room, accented by a leather sofa, a few odd tables, and large rug. I didn't dare turn on the gas; I didn't dare even touch anything. I virtually crawled around the room, but found nothing broken, not even in the tin waste bin. Miffed, I shut the door and stole up the stairs, nimbly avoiding the ones that creaked. 

Sylvia was long since asleep, clutching her doll tightly. However sleep evaded me and I lay staring through the darkness at the ceiling. I had more to wonder about now than why I hadn't been thrown back through time all at once and why I'd kept rendezvousing with a strange, but prominent pair. Enigma wouldn't leave well enough alone. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Comments, questions?


	5. They slip into the shade and sip their l...

            I apologize for how long this setup is taking, but if I don't follow all the directions it will all fall apart later on. My plot outline is ridiculously complicated (think along the lines of HP and the Goblet of Fire. I mean mon Dieu, have you noticed how much foreshadowing is in that book? [Scratches head in amazement]). 

This whole rebelling characters thing is getting way out of hand. Holmes won't tell me what is going on dem it! He's refusing until he's solved it, but I'm the author who's writing the demmed story! I've got special privileges! So Bush and—er I mean comrade-in-writing Watson and I have issued a 48 hour ultimatum. I can't write anymore without those bloody details!

Enough of that.

When the rain comes

They run and hide their heads

They might as well be dead

When the rain comes

~Rain by The Beatles~

Chapter five

            It was unusually warm for October. There wouldn't be many more days like it so I leaped at the chance to get out of the house and arranged a picnic. All I needed was a proper Victorian male escort.

            "Lewis, would you load the picnic basket into the carriage please? It's much too heavy for me," I lied. I hoped he wouldn't remember the occasion when I'd climbed up all three flights of stairs with a struggling child beneath either arm. 

Fortunately his training took over and with a, "very good Miss," he lifted the basket. Nervously I walked behind him, this was going to take some dexterous maneuvering. Betsy winked at me as I lightly stalked out of the kitchen.

"Have fun dear," she said with a tremor of laughter. "Oh, and before you go, cook said give 'em some lemonade from the bottle with the broken seal if things get out of hand."

"Thank you, both," I replied, unreservedly. 

So when Lewis leaned into the open top carriage to deposit the basket, I enthusiastically shoved him in as well and closed the door behind us.

"All set Fred!" I called loudly to the forewarned driver. The children giggled hysterically at the sight of their governess kidnapping their butler.

"Miss Kinglars what is the meaning of this?" he regally demanded.

"You didn't think we would be going without an escort, surely," I replied in an as scandalized tone as I could manage.

"Very well than Miss," he said in an amusingly dejected tone. 

"Come now Lewis," I cajoled, "Betsy said you needed a vacation, and it's only an afternoon. Cheer up." 

I could hardly believe he was seriously that dismal, but looking at his face you had to believe it. He was truly silly. It was so mad to realize that this refined gentleman sitting across from me was in all essence _pouting_ I burst out laughing on the spot.   

When we'd gotten to Covent Park I was beginning to wish I'd brought leashes.  I'd thought the children had gotten through les petites diables stage, but it was resurging. While I had no need of an escort, I had plenty need of Lewis. Once we'd had lunch Jacob and Sylvia drowsed off (via the lemonade). 

Thomas wanted to explore so Lewis took guard of them. I marveled at his ability to maintain dignity while sitting on a blanket on the ground. I had forfeited dignity to these children long ago. While I doubted you would mistake me as a mother (what respectable parent would let their children frolic so?) Lewis stuck out like a giraffe in a room full of penguins. 

Light scattered through the tree leaves onto the gravel path as I meandered a few paces behind Thomas. Occasional strands of laughter and conversation breezed across the air. Birds chirped; you could almost imagine you were in the country. I tipped my head back to admire the trees. I didn't like the unbroken sea of rooftops visible from my window. 

            Well that would be my excuse for not noticing the rock directly in my path. I lay face down for a moment, gathering the scattered pieces of my pride. Gavel crunched before me and I found myself studying a high quality black leather shoe.

            'S'il vous plait, Dieu, don't let it be Holmes,' I fervently prayed.

            I was graciously answered with a hand up that I didn't recognize. 

            "Are you well Miss?"

            "Yes sir, I'm fine," I murmured. Brushing my skirt off rigorously to hide my crimson face. 

            "I would like to make a proposal, if I may be so forward."

            I looked at the man closely in surprise. His dark eyes glimmered with untold intelligence, somehow he reminded me of a Cobra. As I studied his stoic face I decided his hood was not opened. For the time being I was on firm ground.

            "You have my attention," I said cautiously.

            "Favorable arrangements could be made for you if certain information, ah, found it's way into the right hands," he said in a low voice. 

            "I'm not interested," I told him firmly and lengthened my stride. 

"Listen," he snarled, viciously yanking my arm, "I can assure you that it will be well worth your time."

"What is it about men, that they can't seem to understand the meaning of N-O when issued from a girl's lips!" I growled, heedless of his illusory uncloaked hood in my minds eye. If he thought he could intimidate me he had another thought coming. I tore my arm out of his grasp and shoved his shoulder back while hooking his ankle. I didn't wait to witness him sprawled across the path.

"Thomas!" I called, jogging after him. 

"Emma?" he said, tumbling out of a tree (we dispensed with formality when other adult weren't around).

"We're going home." I grasped his hand in mine and hoisted my skirt with the other so I could move freely.

            "But why?"

            "Can you be brave?"

            He nodded with a scoffing expression.

            "There's a man here who could put you in danger. You're not to say anything to anyone about this, you understand. I need to talk to someone first."

            I sighed with relief, Sylvia and Jacob were fine, but where was Lewis?

            "Miss Kinglars?"

            I started; Lewis had snuck up like that creepy butler in Mr. Deeds. 

'It must be part of training,' I thought wearily.

"We needed to get the children home," I told him. He nodded and bent to rouse Jacob.

"No," I changed my mind as I lifted Sylvia, "I think a direct consultation with 221B is in order."  

I left Lewis and the children in Mrs. Hudson's capable hands and stormed the brigade. To my distorted delight the detective was in residency. He sat in the famous armchair, smoking as predicted.

"What the hell is going on?" I snarled vehemently.

"Pardon me?" he drawled sarcastically. 

"What do you mean by placing me with the Wilson's?"

"I beg your pardon? Perhaps you should sit down and explain yourself."

I studied him for a moment and the sat down, swearing to myself in French. Hearing this he leaned forward, his keen eyes flitting over my figure. 

"Someone approached you," he started. 

I must admit I was taken aback. Glancing over my behavior and words I understood how he had come to the correct conjuncture and re-hinged my jaw. Not to say I could do it on my own, but it was logical. Logic was about all I had hope of following. 

"You are rather difficult to follow, Kinglars," he added bemusedly.

"I'm glad to hear it," I retorted with a fairly meager dose of spite.

"So do divulge, Kinglars." He rubbed his hands together with an expression that made me want to laugh. I recounted everything to him finishing apologetically with, "it's really nothing substantial. You understand I want to make sure this wasn't some mad sort of set up."

"I am wounded by your doubt in me," he mocked.

"I know what your brother does for a living and I wouldn't put it past either of you," I rejoined. His cocked eyebrow arched dramatically.

"Come off it Holmes and tell me—ah never mind, I'll take the children home and go on as—" I cut myself off abruptly and blanked out for a moment.

"Kinglars, tell me already," Holmes pleaded in frustration.

"I just remembered an argument I overheard a few weeks ago. This man was threatening, well from his tone I surmised as much, Mr. Wilson.  He refused to comply. Glass broke and he left in a rage. After he'd gone up I searched the study, but I couldn't find anything broken. It was very odd." I gazed off into space musing about what I'd seen and heard that night.

"Hmm, what?" I asked snapping back into reality at the sound of Holmes's voice.

"What can you tell me about him?" His voice was strained with impatience.

"Had a very long stride. Lighting was terrible; I didn't get a good look at him. His hair was dark." I paused a moment for reflection, "very well dressed. His suit was a high quality cut. Perhaps ten centimeters taller than me? I can't be sure. That's it, I'm sorry."

"It may yet prove useful," he murmured, leaning back and packing his pipe with little taps. There was a clear rap on the door that I recognized at once.

"Lewis?" I called.

"Ah, yes I beg your pardon Miss Kinglars, but there is a storm approaching. We should get the children home quickly," he advised.

Light flickered in the sinister thunderheads looming over London.

"Wicked," I whispered to cover my anachronistic comment. Hesitantly I rose.

"You will be keeping an eye out for me?"

"It needs material and in its present form shows little promise, but I will."

I nodded my thanks and hastened downstairs with Lewis at my side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have 40 reviews [sob]! Thank you!

Constructivism (cool word ne?) welcome, Also note: Emma has been so kind as to inform me that in the future will be a romantic subplot, but I have too much respect for my characters to sugarcoat it. Not to say that it won't have a waffy moment or two, but their personalities' are too cataclysmic (cool word ne!) to keep it from being rocky slightly angst, ya know? Love y'all! 


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